


Southern Comforts

by Carrogath



Series: Manifest [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Politics, Racism, Slavery mention, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 13:13:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19085761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrogath/pseuds/Carrogath
Summary: Sombra revolutionizes the South. Of Ashe’s pants, at least.





	Southern Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> Got tired of working on this so... Happy Pride!

 

Standing in front of the gated entrance to Ashe’s estate, Sombra had to ask herself one last question:

“What the fuck am I doing here?”

True, Sombra had always had a weakness for strong, confident women, the ones who knew what they wanted and who had the balls to go out and get it. She enjoyed being underneath them as much as she enjoyed being on top of them; she liked the push-and-pull of their egos, the gravity of their emotions, the strain of their weight. She liked the mind games as much as she liked the sex. The riskier the tryst, the better it would feel.

This was stupid. She knew it was stupid. And she was going to do it anyway, because fuck common sense. Bitch was gon’ get laid!

She hit the buzzer on the intercom, jammed her hands in her pockets, and waited. She checked the watch she wasn’t wearing. She whistled to herself. She bounced on her heels. She had tried meth, cocaine, pot, LSD—all terrible ideas. The high, the real high, came from people.

And fuck if she just could not _wait_.

The iron gates slid open without warning. Ashe’s estate was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere in a less inhabited part of Arizona, to put it nicely. There were probably more lizards per square mile than people around here. It was a great place to dispose of bodies, or build a secret hideout, or what-have-you. Ashe may not have been a drug lord, but Sombra wouldn’t be surprised if she were.

She hummed a little as she crossed onto the property. There was a fountain in the middle of the—front yard? Driveway? Anyway, there was an extremely wasteful and entirely unnecessary fountain in front of her bigass mansion, and to her left a garage that looked like it could hold thirty cars. Maybe bikes, in Ashe’s case, and then a bunch of other shit to her right, like, the rest of her house or something. And grass. Jesus. There was grass. In Arizona.

The front door—there were other doors, but this looked like the front one, at least—was in the center of a long arcade, Mission-style, like the old monasteries. Sombra stepped under the arches and rang another doorbell. She waited ten minutes.

Then, the door swung open to reveal B.O.B., in his little butler getup, on the other side, and a huge stairwell and the rest of this portion of the whole damn house.

Sombra waved at him. “Hi, Bob. I’m here to see your, ehm… Ashe. I’m here to see Ashe.”

The Omnic narrowed his beady green eyes suspiciously. His model didn’t talk—of course it didn’t; Ashe would never purchase a slave that talked back—and so after glancing her over a bit, he stepped back and allowed her in.

She took a moment to examine the place. Her cybernetics were already at work mapping out potential escape routes, which freed her conscious mind to admire, or alternatively abhor, her current surroundings. Wrought iron lamps, heavy wooden furniture, brass doorknobs, big windows, warm lighting. It felt cozy, for a mansion. There was a cattle skull centerpiece on a dining table to her left, and some leather cowboy gear hanging off the walls. Kitschy.

Bob led her into the dining room, and pulled out a chair. She sat. Then he left, presumably to find Ashe wherever she was in this fucking excuse for a domicile. Sombra opened up a few screens and checked some aerial views of the region. Nothing around for miles—gas station here, depot there, highways, rocks, dirt, more rocks, more dirt… She really was screwed if something happened.

Ah, well. She kicked up her feet on the table and leaned back. Would Ashe be surprised to see her? Sombra hadn’t announced her visit, more fun that way.

More deadly that way, too. Ashe didn’t live with anyone else, as far as she knew. She threw big fancy parties in a number of her houses on occasion, ostensibly to stay in the good graces of other corrupt rich people. Sombra would have to sneak into one someday, both the house and the party.

She didn’t know what to make of Ashe. The second she thought she had her figured out, Ashe had proven her wrong. She wasn’t disappointed—she’d been expecting the worst, honestly—but to her, Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe was still just some rich white gringa LARPing Grand Theft Auto with her greasy robot butler and some redneck wannabe gangsters who didn’t know any better. The fact that she might have had a soul didn’t make any difference. She sure wasn’t using it for anything worthwhile.

Ashe stabilized this part of the country, so there was no reason to take her down yet. Getting rid of her now just meant something worse would take her place. She’d take Ashe’s lame sense of cowboy honor over… whatever was going to replace her. _Agua que no has de beber, déjala correr._ If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

She could have gone somewhere else to get her thirsty ass laid, though. She had higher aspirations than fucking (or for that matter, fucking over,) wealthy criminals. She was far from desperate, and she definitely wasn’t bored. She had other things, hell, she had other people, she could be doing. She had no plans to dismantle the Deadlocks, and she wasn’t interested in an alliance, either. She really just wanted Ashe to rail her, and maybe call Ashe a “cunt” to her face. And then eat her out.

Sombra sighed and brought a hand up to her face, muttering under her breath.

“Just leave before she kills you already, stupid!”

Bob came over a few minutes later with a glass of sparkling water, a slice of lemon, and no Ashe. Then he left again.

“Dammit, where is she?” Sombra stood up. “Come out, you psycho bitch…”

Security cameras? None. Funny, in a house like this she’d figured there’d be a couple. She scanned the area for IOT devices. These rooms were surprisingly low-tech—Sombra found the thermostat, some routers, smart lights, a few cameras outside the estate, and a handful of standalone computers. Then there was the kitchen. The fridge was smart. The toaster was smart. Hell, every single appliance was smart; Bob could start the oven and the dishwasher from the other side of the house.

And then she saw her. Ashe was asleep on a sofa in some other room. Sombra traced the camera to a tablet she had surreptitiously turned on and hacked. Bob was probably forcing Sombra to wait until his boss woke up, but she didn’t have time for that. Sombra was a busy woman. She set her GPS coordinates to Ashe’s exact location, and then left.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, Sombra managed to not run into Bob despite missing the room the first time around and having to take the stairs. The GPS hadn’t given her altitude, lousy piece of crap. The room itself was small and filled with wooden furniture. There was a bookshelf and a coffee table, decorated with some carved, wooden, black, antelope sculpture that looked like it had come from someplace in Africa. Above the sofa was a painting of a massive forest. Sombra recognized the trees as California redwoods. Were there even any left?

And then there was Ashe. She was slumped against the sofa with her hat over her face, and had foregone most of her usual riding gear. She was still wearing a tie, though, and she had a gun strapped to her thigh. You could never be too sure, Sombra guessed. She took a moment to admire the sinew in her arms, the lean muscle in her legs, the rare moment of vulnerability, and then stepped forward.

Ashe cocked the gun and pointed it straight at her face without looking. Sombra froze, eyes glued to the barrel.

Naturally.

Ashe placed her free hand over the crown of her hat. “And just where do you think you’re goin’?”

Sombra slipped her hands behind her back and leaned over, coyly. “Wherever you’d like. Sugar.”

She took her hat off her face and rested it on her chest, letting her other hand dangle at her side, still holding the gun. “Runnin’ off to play Robin Hood with your… ‘friends’ again?” She punctuated the word with air quotes.

“Maybe. Why? You want to be the Sheriff of Nottingham?”

“I wouldn’t make a very good one, that’s for sure.” She put her hat down on the sofa and sat up, holstering her gun. Then she loosened whatever was left of the knot in her tie and tossed it over the back of the sofa. Sombra’s gaze dropped to her collar as she undid the first button, and then the second.

Ashe looked up at her. “Enjoyin’ the show?”

She wet her lips. “Wasn’t expecting one, but if you’re offering…”

“Mind telling me why you’re here, first?” She didn’t look suspicious, and if she was surprised at all, she was good at hiding it.

She shrugged. “Just to see if you were free.”

Ashe held her gaze. Those red eyes sure were something. “Free to do what, exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know… Have a little chat, maybe a couple drinks, trade some juicy celebrity gossip—”

“You mean sex.”

Sombra smiled wryly. “Was I being too obvious?”

She ran a hand through her hair and made a complicated expression, somewhere between exasperation and embarrassment. “You sure are gutsy, comin’ all the way out here just to ask me for that.”

“I didn’t hear a ‘no’.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me, haven’t you? How else would you know I was here?”

Sombra smiled.

Ashe stood. She was decently taller than Sombra, and the heels of her boots clacked along the floor. She sized Sombra up, frowning. Then she circled Sombra, laser-focused in her movements, like a wolf stalking its prey. She stopped after one round, apparently satisfied, and sat back down on the sofa.

Then she spread her legs, looked Sombra in the eye, and crooked her finger. “Well, then. You comin’?”

Sombra found herself on Ashe’s lap before she even realized what she was doing.

“Took you long enough,” Ashe scoffed, grabbing her chin and tilting it downward. “I’d say I’d put you in your place, but you look like you know right where you belong.”

“Oh,” said Sombra, “lo entiendo bien.” She swallowed hard and willed herself to stay put, trying to mask her excitement. A voice inside of her was screaming at her to get out—she had no backup, no contingency plans, and no chance the second Ashe got sick of her—and yet there she stayed, like a lamb to the Versace-branded slaughter.

And the guillotine was going to have little LVs on it, for Louis Vuitton, so at least she’d go out in style…

Ashe smiled lazily as her eyes roved Sombra’s face, her breasts, her hips, her body, soaking in every last detail. “Hard to believe someone like you could prove such a threat.” Her hand slipped under Sombra’s shirt, tickling her ribs, and Sombra’s breath hitched. “Barely have to lift a finger to make you…”

Ashe fingered one of the ports on her back, prodded inside the opening. Sombra shivered, sensitive where metal welded to skin.

“Huh. And what does this one do?”

“Just in case I need the extra juice,” Sombra explained, or rather lied.

“So it’s like a USB port?”

“Close enough.”

Ashe dug her nails into the skin around it.

Sombra squirmed and pulled her hand away. “Dude,” she said, glaring at her, “you trying to yank it out?”

“It’s wedged in pretty deep, huh? Interesting.” She wriggled her hand out of Sombra’s grasp and slid a finger up her lower spine. Sombra’s back arched. “I like it.” Then she leaned in, closer, until her hair brushed the nape of Sombra’s neck—and stopped, stretching out the fabric of Sombra’s shirt. “Let’s get this lousy excuse for a fashion sense out of the way first, shall we?”

Ashe’s foreplay was as unhurried as her speech. There was less demand in her touch than measured interest—trying to gauge her reactions, find her weak spots, where she could make her writhe and gasp and moan, unravel her at the slightest touch. By the time Ashe had made it down to the waistline of her pants, Sombra was soaked through her underwear, and she had to summon all her willpower to stay composed while Ashe worked off the rest of her clothing.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing.”

Her skin was on fire. Any more and she would spontaneously combust, the notion of which was only marginally less appealing than her other options, most of which seemed to consist of her dying in various spectacular fashions courtesy of the Deadlock Gang.

“I don’t seem to recall you being so patient last time.” Ashe looked at her. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Not really in the mood to be a brat today, sorry.”

“I can fix that.”

They stared at each other. The tension in the air was hazy, delicate—a filigree of misplaced trust and mindless decisions and the unspoken promise of sweet, sweet dolor, if she would only give in and accept what was being offered to her. Sombra bent down, and then hesitated, or at least as much as she could, given how much of her body was already pressed against Ashe’s own.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? You’re lookin’ at me like we didn’t just fuck the other day.”

Every nerve between her legs was burning at the contact, and if she changed positions, the friction alone would destroy her.

_I’m not your bitch._

It felt weird to bring it up now. Sombra couldn’t tell if Ashe was being honest, or if she knew exactly what was going on and was waiting for Sombra to trip up. This was casual sex, wasn’t it?

Bullshit. Nothing with Sombra was ever casual.

She kissed Ashe once, twice, experimentally, feeling an arm snake around her shoulders and pull her in. Ashe’s hand came to rest at her neck, cradling the base of her skull. Then she seized the back of her head and crushed their mouths together, rough and possessive and wanting. Sombra moaned as she shifted against her. She grinded her hips into Ashe’s thighs to resist the urge to start touching herself, but her was willpower fading, and fast.

“You’re close.”

“No shit—”

Whatever Ashe did next shut her up, and she came in hard, sudden waves, helpless against her own release. She only stopped when she felt Ashe tense up beneath her, and eased herself up and off Ashe’s fingers when she could finally wrest back a little self-control.

She gasped for air. “Fuck…” She could still feel her hips rocking, the pulses quickening between her legs. Ashe’s face was flushed and vacant, her pupils blown wide. Sombra wondered how badly she’d turned her on and almost came again at the thought of it.

“You need…” Sombra’s mind was blanking on the word. On any word, really. Palabras, ¿a dónde fueron ustedes? “Let me touch you.”

Ashe was pliant beneath her, too aroused to do anything but move into a more comfortable position and let Sombra take care of her. She was shaky when she climaxed, coming in gasps and quiet moans, until Sombra felt the last of it flutter around her fingers, reluctant to end. Ashe’s eyes were unfocused, glazed over in ecstasy.

Being inside her felt so fucking good. She was so fucking wet.

When Ashe finally finished, her gaze snapped to Sombra’s face. “I didn’t let you touch me last time, did I?”

“No,” said Sombra, stupidly.

“Christ, I haven’t had anyone touch me like that in years. Almost forgot what it felt like.” She stood up and pulled on her underwear and jeans, and gave Sombra a quick once-over when she was done. “You done?”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t wearing anything complicated, so she was fully dressed in a couple minutes. Ashe kept staring at her as if she were checking out a total stranger. “What?”

“Didn’t even have to pay you.”

“What.” Her voice was flat. Granted, she was kind of a slut, but she wasn’t _that_ kind of slut.

“Nothin’.” She turned around. “Don’t mind me.” She stared at her fingers curiously, and then gave them a tentative lick.

Sombra blushed.

“Didn’t think women were really my thing, but I suppose I don’t mind it every now and then. You’re a nice girl, Olivia.”

“Uh…”

“Oh.” She pulled out her gun and cocked it, aiming it at Sombra’s forehead. “Beg your pardon.”

Her eyes went wide.

“Is this what you were waitin’ for?”

“No,” said Sombra, waving her hands, “not at all; Jesus, put that thing away!”

She did. “Suppose there’s no point in askin’ you to keep things ‘professional,’ now that I know what your pussy tastes like, but I don’t like to mix my business with pleasure.” She started walking back towards her. “I don’t mind you comin’ in and stealing my shit—not like any of it is worth a damn anyway—but if you try anything funny,” she leaned in, way too close, “I’m gonna rip out your guts, tie ‘em to the ceiling, and hang you with your own intestines.” She pressed the barrel of the gun to Sombra’s forehead. “Comprende, amiga?”

“Por supuesto, mi jefa,” she replied, standing very, very still.

“Good.” Ashe holstered the gun. “You’re good. I like it.” She walked away, and was quiet for a moment. “Something tells me this is a bad idea, but hell, what’s the worst that could happen?” She looked back at her. “Let’s do it again sometime. And maybe stay a while. Use the fuckin’ bowling alley for once…”

“Wait,” said Sombra. “Where are you going?”

“Wherever I want, dumbass. It’s my goddamn house.”

Sombra hurried after her. “That’s it?”

“Well, if you had to ask, I was gonna shower. And that’s not an invitation, by the way. I would’ve cleared my schedule if I knew you were here, but I’ve got a meeting in two hours and I got to look presentable for the other board members.”

“Oh,” Sombra rolled her eyes, “that kind of meeting.”

“You can trash the place if you want,” said Ashe. Sombra followed her into the master bedroom. “It’s got room enough for two people, or three, or hell, a hundred.” Ashe undressed carelessly, pulled out a bathrobe from a small closet and tied it on. “Stay the night and we can fuck again. I don’t know what your plans are, but I don’t really care.”

“Yeah,” said Sombra. “I kinda got that vibe from you.”

Ashe walked toward the bathroom, and then paused in the doorway and looked at her. “You really into me, or are you just foolin’ around?”

Ah, shit.

Ashe narrowed her eyes. “I don’t care how easy you are; don’t you dare make a fool out of me. This is the second time you showed up for a quick fuck, and someone like you is already plenty suspicious. Don’t tell me I have something you want.”

“Just your body. Honest,” said Sombra. “I don’t like you, so we can fuck without feeling weird about it.”

She blinked. “Oh. Well, that’s fair, then. Just stop dropping in unannounced or I might ‘accidentally’ pull the trigger next time. I’m all for keepin’ things casual, long as you keep an eye on that asshole McCree for me.”

“So do you like him, or something?”

Ashe walked into the bathroom without responding.

Sombra rolled her eyes. Gringas.

 

* * *

 

Sombra lingered after Ashe left for her board meeting, and spent the rest of the day exploring the estate. She did eventually find the bowling alley, plus a full-screen movie theater with an old-time popcorn machine and five different kinds of sodas on tap. A lot of the rooms were mostly empty, or guest bedrooms, or filled with random junk. One was like a mini museum with old Hollywood cowboy memorabilia, Clint Eastwood and John Wayne and Roy Rogers. Another was an office full of financial crap, binders and file cabinets and encrypted hard drives. A third housed more of those American landscape paintings, of waterfalls and wheat fields and farmhouses and canyons that stretched off into the distance, as far as the eye could see. A fourth was lined with old highway signs and vintage travel posters and long tables covered in diecast toy cars and motorcycles. One of them hovered above the surface, a perfect miniature of Ashe’s favorite bike.

It was like she didn’t know what to do with all her money, so she just kept wasting it on useless bullshit, shrines to the false gods of the American Dream. The decor was American in a way that didn’t exist anymore, if it ever had—white, nuclear, heterosexual, idealized, Madison Avenue Reaganomic Trumpism, selling the idea of happiness and prosperity through the divine powers of unrestricted free-market capitalism. Ashe was a trust fund baby. She’d been born rich. She was living the Dream, had been destined for it. And all of that opportunity had gotten her where?

“Qué feo.” She didn’t envy Ashe one bit.

Dinner was served by Bob, rare T-bone steak and a loaded baked potato and a salad that was actually just half a head of lettuce with blue cheese dressing and bacon bits crumbled on top. Ashe wouldn’t come back until nine. Sombra felt like a freeloader, an uninvited guest taking advantage of a stranger’s hospitality, though they weren’t exactly strangers and Sombra felt justified in making use of Ashe’s multiple home entertainment centers. That movie theater wasn’t going to watch itself, was it?

Somewhere between dinner and Ashe’s return, Sombra took a bath in a big old hot tub in one of the fancier guest bathrooms, and was positively offended by how much the soap could lather. She wondered what it would be like to fuck Ashe in it, with the air jets and the bath bombs and the programmable temperature settings. Then she got off to it.

This was what she imagined the lives of the rich and famous to be: like Dorian Grey, mindlessly self-serving and devoid of true purpose, chasing highs for the hell of it and never looking back down. Collecting guns and cars and soiled paper napkins once owned by famous dead people, fucking ten-pin bowling in the downstairs basement, masturbating in a hot tub for lack of anything better to do. She wondered if rich people commissioned porn like they commissioned paintings.

Probably.

When she got out of the tub and finished wiping down her implants and drying herself off, Ashe was standing there outside the bathroom, in a business suit with her makeup done and everything.

“I like the hot tub,” said Sombra. “Very comfortable.”

Ashe scowled, and then said, “How do you bathe with all those wires under your skin?”

“Carefully,” she replied with a smile.

“What d’you think of the rest of the house? Anything catch your eye?”

Sombra looked her up and down appreciatively. “Not until you came back, to be honest.”

Ashe grinned. “Oh, this one thinks she’s clever, does she? Keep that up and you might have to take another bath before you leave tonight.”

“To be fair, I probably fuck better after a decent shower.”

Her expression hardened for a fraction of a second, and then relaxed.

Damn.

Ashe turned around. “If I felt like mind games, I’d play a round of Texas hold ‘em.”

“Who said anything about playing games?” Sombra asked, trailing behind her in nothing but a towel. “I thought it’d be rude of me to decline your…” her voice dropped a couple pitches, “generous offer of hospitality. Eh, preciosa?”

Ashe stopped, and Sombra had the grace to not intentionally run into her. She did make sure to stand very, very close, enough for Ashe to smell that lovely lavender and sandalwood soap.

Ashe inhaled, and then exhaled.

“You know, my secret is that I try not to get angry so often—mm!” Sombra was pinned to the wall with a thud, her bath towel held up only by the fact that their bodies were suddenly pressed very close together. Sombra pushed her away, gasping, “Pues supongo que ya no quieres matarme.”

“Por qué don’t you shut up, you dirty little greaser…”

The towel slid slowly but surely down her legs, until it piled on the floor at her feet.

“Cunt,” she breathed, before every other thought flew out of her head.

 

* * *

 

_Diablos, maybe I am your bitch._

Dripping wet for an American, that was no way for her to be. This was the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo all over again, and Ashe got everything from Texas to California while Sombra didn’t even get her peace of mind. Sombra was a mastermind, a conqueror, while at the same time a sneak and a thief, a stateless horsefly to the governing livestock of the world. She could suck their blood all day, but it’d never be enough to drain them whole.

“Damn.” The clock in the periphery of Sombra’s vision struck midnight. Ashe was a cuddler in her sleep, apparently, her breasts pressed up against Sombra’s shoulder and the rest of her body fused to Sombra’s skin. It wasn’t the fake kind of sleep from earlier in the day, either; this time, she was really dead to the world. Sombra tensed with discomfort. Bitch was possessive even when she was unconscious.

The usual sneer had disappeared from her face, too, replaced with a wan, tired scowl, frown lines zigzagging across her face from the sun and the desert and the heat.

Well. Ashe wasn’t getting any younger; that was for sure. Sombra had spent almost as much time naked in this house as she had clothed, and the night air was starting to prickle her exposed skin. She couldn’t tell whether Ashe trusted her or not, but she assumed the former. She’d only let Sombra leave last time because Sombra threatened to let her crush die. That wasn’t gonna work on her now.

There’d been something in her eyes, too, after they’d done it on her couch, a cautious interest that hadn’t been there before. She had the luxury to be curious about things like that—about people like Sombra. She was bored, overindulged, stoned out on ennui, enough to take as many risks as Sombra did, if not more. She meant everything she said. She was easy to read, that way. In Sombra’s experience, that kind of sincerity resulted in goodness, rather than criminality.

Then again, the culture of the Deep South made no sense to her whatsoever, so maybe the more honest you were the meaner you were supposed to be, or something. Americans.

Sombra turned so that she was facing Ashe, and sighed into the crook of her neck.

Was that why?

“Oh, God, just shoot me now.”

Ashe’s hand shot up reflexively, and clamped around Sombra’s throat.

“Puta—!”

Her eyelids fluttered, and she squinted as her eyes came into focus. “Oh. It’s just you. Don’t scare me like that, Jesus.” Then she let go.

Sombra rubbed her neck. “Well,” she muttered, “at least I know you can take care of yourself.”

“Sorry,” she said, looking away. “Not used to having people in my bed anymore. Least of all a woman.”

“I’m not your first,” Sombra asked, “am I?”

“Woman? God, no. But it’s something different, I guess,” she said, as if Sombra were a new type of cheese she had been sampling.

Sombra had the feeling that that wasn’t far from the truth, either. What was next on Ashe’s list? Asians? Indians? Had she had her fill of Mexican ass at last, was searching for something more? Or had her appetite for carnal pleasures been satiated, and she’d be good for another two, three years, until the specter of loneliness crept up on her again and she’d be on the prowl like the nasty old cougar that she was?

“What are you into, anyway? Anal? Electrostim? That shibari shit? Seems like you’d be up for damn near anything, from what I can tell…” Ashe tapped her chin in idle thought, and stared up at the ceiling. “Or is it just the fact that you get to have me under you for a little while?” She looked at her. “I’m sure if it were up to you, it’d be that way outside the bedroom, too.”

She was serious.

“Oh yeah,” Sombra joked, “when I roleplay Marxist revolutions with my partners I always insist on being the working class.”

Ashe raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“What do you think, pen… Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes, “seizing the means of production really turns me on, camarada. Viva la revolución.”

Ashe stared at her in complete silence. Did she not understand sarcasm? Or did Sombra really seem like the type of person to get off to…

OK, maybe she had a point. “It was a joke.”

She narrowed her eyes. “It sure didn’t sound like one.”

“Look, said Sombra, “the only thing I want to revolutionize when I’m in bed with you is your pasty white ass, believe it or not. That’s not why I fuck people, and the only reason I agreed to look after McCree for you is because I’d already planned on it. Sure, it’s fun to pretend that some rich American CEO could care about me, but to you, I know I’m just some slutty brown girl who’s all over your diamond-studded pussy.”

“You’re a fuckin’ terrorist!” Ashe propped herself up on her elbows. “Don’t ‘brown girl’ me! You could probably steal more money than I could ever fuckin’ dream of. Don’t play the fuckin’ race card pretendin’ like anyone has any reason to feel sorry for you. You’re a goddamn shadow. You’re _the_ Sombra. I thought you were just here to get laid, all right?” She sat all the way up, rigid with contempt. “Sorry if I stepped on your precious little ‘P-O-C’ toes. Thought I was in for a nice, quiet evening, not a communist pep rally.”

Sombra’s face burned with humiliation. She flipped over and got up on her knees. “What did you say?”

Ashe glared at her. “I said, honey, chinga tu madre.”

She clenched her teeth. Not her house, not her turf, not her country. And not the time to make a complete fool of herself, either. Her mind raged with curses, insults, swearing. Vengeance. She could order Talon to take out McCree right now. She’d probably be doing them a favor, even. It wasn’t enough to take her money. It wasn’t enough to expose her crimes. It wasn’t even enough to kill her.

She held back frustrated tears. “Don’t you get it?” She sat back on her calves. “The reason I steal from people like you is because I know things are never going to fucking change. The rich are going to stay rich, and the poor are going to stay poor, and the gangs will have a steady source of labor, and the politicians are always going to have someone else to blame, and everyone is always going to be selfish and callous and paranoid as fuck because they were all taught that material wealth was the most important thing in the world when it’s not. You vote the same old sociopathic blowhards into office because they’ve been brainwashing you since childhood, and no matter how long it’s been since the last world war, you pretend that hating each other will produce tenable results when all it does is provide a flimsy excuse to justify the kinds of conflicts that destroy people’s lives in the first place!”

Sombra’s chest heaved. “I know it’s not your fault. I know shit would be a lot worse around here without the Deadlocks. You probably weren’t even thinking about my skin color before I brought it up. But you couldn’t even begin to understand…” she ran a hand through her hair, “how lucky you are that you and your friends can ignore all the evil in the world and not have to suffer even a little bit for it. It’s so fucking unfair.” She pushed herself off the bed. “Lo odio. Realmente lo odio.”

She hacked Bob into finding her clothes and handing them back, and forced herself not to think about the potential consequences of doing so. If she hadn’t done it now, Bob might have done something worse—hell, she was sure she had just pissed Ashe off and wasn’t leaving this house without a fight. Most of the rest of the house still had lights on, so it didn’t take long to find the front door.

She had just grabbed the handle when she heard Ashe’s voice.

“Hey.”

Her knuckles turned white.

“Colomar, I’m not out to get you right now. OK?”

She looked up. Ashe looked surprisingly plain in her bathrobe, disheveled from the sex they’d had earlier and wiped clean of the makeup she’d been wearing earlier in the day. Her eyes looked smaller, her lips paler, her face longer. Her eyes looked brown in this light, or maybe they always had been. Worst of all, she looked worried.

Ashe never looked like that.

“What.”

“Look. You’re right. I don’t really know what you’ve been through—I know about the Medianoche and all that—I know about Los Muertos’ rise to power. It’s not like I don’t know what’s been going on in Mexico for the past thirty years. I thought this was just...” she looked down, searching for words, “somethin’ between us. Didn’t think it was political or anything like that.”

Sombra’s face twisted into a grimace. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

Her brow crinkled in frustration. “You understand, though, don’t you? You’re not some poor kid in the slums anymore—”

“So what?” Her lower lip trembled. “So what if I’m not? What does that have to do with anything? You think I could just forget about all the people I left behind to get to where I am now? How many people whose lives I had to destroy, how many people have died because of me? You spoiled fucking brat.” She let the tears fall from her eyes; fuck it. “I’m not you. We are nothing alike. If all you feel for those kids is pity and contempt, then you don’t understand anything at all.”

Ashe stared at her. She was quiet for a long, long time, long enough that Sombra was ready to turn the doorknob and leave.

“I won’t if you keep running away.”

“No.” Sombra wiped her face with the back of her hand.

Ashe took a step forward. “Why not? I know you. You’re not just talk. You get things done. I’m used to backstabbings and betrayals. I’ve got more money than God. I have nothing to lose from talking to you.”

“You’re bored,” Sombra insisted. “This?” She motioned in Ashe’s direction. “This is… bullshit to you. Child’s play. The second you get tired of me, you can shoot me in the head and call it a day. You’re a fucking crime boss.”

“And you’re a genius fucking hacker.” She took another step forward. “Or are you really so chicken you think some two-bit gangster’s gonna fuck you over because you called her a ‘cunt’ once or twice? I’ve been called a lot worse, believe me.”

“That’s not…” Sombra sighed and loosened her grip on the handle.

“You came here for a little fun, didn’t you?” Her eyes were dangerously bright. “Maybe we both have something to learn from each other. It’s not all as simple as you’re makin’ it out to be. People change.”

Sombra smirked, trying to suppress a full-blown grin.

This bitch was good.

She glanced toward the doorknob, and then back toward Ashe. Decisions, decisions.

Sombra tutted, letting go of the handle, and let her gaze slide up and down the woman’s body. “Mm, I don’t know, blanquita. You’re not being very convincing right now.”

Ashe closed the distance between them in two quick strides. “You really love being pinned to the wall, don’t you?” she asked.

“Not really,” said Sombra. She could already feel Ashe’s teeth on her neck. “But people change.”


End file.
